


Paradise

by clusband (orphan_account)



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gen, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, you can choose what kind of romance is going on here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/clusband
Summary: He looks almost ridiculous, wearing bright yellow sweatpants and a black tee shirt with his hair all a-fluff. Oh fuck, he’s wearing slippers with little clowns and carousel horses on them.





	Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> It was past curfew, and we was at the grove  
> And it was raining, and I had to be home  
> And then you grabbed my hand, talking about trying to get home safe  
> All I remember, was your motherfucking face  
> -Troll Tyler the Creator

It was past midnight before you realized that you, for once, had no plans. You’d met with Lynera earlier for a coffee-and-gossip date, but that was cut short after a frenzied call from Bronya. Something about an early, unplanned hatching? Either way, she rushed out and sort of left you in the dust. Your plans with Polpya and Tegiri fell through, as Polypa was currently MIA, Mallek wasn’t answering his phone, and your scheduled work out and spa session with Stelsa wasn’t for another three days. You're feeling restless as you walk through the suburbs. It's been a few days since you'd last felt that yearning for new friend- the thing is, you are quite happy with all of the friends you have! Chances are at least one of them would be willing to spend time with you tonight.

Okay, so maybe there is one particular troll you want to spend time with. Ever since you met at clownfest, you couldn’t keep Marvus out of your head. Even after you lost the whole star struck feeling, there's just something about him that strikes you, draws you to him. The two of you have been messaging each other pretty regularly- he usually sent you videos of him and his clown buddies pranking each other, or snippets of upcoming lyrics, and you would respond with stories about your life or little anecdotes about your day. He was surprisingly sweet and perceptive, always asking after you and picking up little details that led him to find out that, yes, you really did only own a hoodie, a robe and a dress, and yes, you did only eat one meal that day and no, you haven't really been getting the recommended amount of sleep. He helped out, where he could, meeting you for lunches and sending you some soft blankets, but even god and all his angels could not convince you to don a jesters motley.

In fact, wouldn’t it be so easy to just... text him? Right now? You shoot him a quick ‘what are you up to?’ message and continue on your walk, letting out your nervous energy through the power of your magnificent legs.

His response is eerily fast- ‘just finishing up here. u feel like chillin 2nite buddy :o)’- and after a quick back and forth, you send him your coordinates, and soon he’s on his way.

You hear him before you see him, the bassline of the song he’s listening to thrumming through his limo from blocks and streets away. When he pulls up to you, you step inside with relief. The sky is getting cloudy, and you think you smell rain in the distance. Once inside, he enthusiastically greets you with a half high-five, half fist bump and a wide, sleepy smile. He turns the music down and drags his hand over his eyes, attempting to rub the sleep out. You get a good look at him. He looks… worn down. His hair is mussed and his jacket has been thrown on the floor haphazardly. He's even kicked his shoes off halfway. You start to feel bad, and tell him that you didn’t mean to intrude- he looks really tired! He waves his hand at you, as if he can knock your words out of the air. “No worries bud. I invited u, didn’t i?" He stifles a yawn, then, with a laugh, adds "mayb we can just keep it lowkey 2nite." You agree with him, turning down his proffered faygo. He shrugs at you before he takes a small sip of his own. You settle into a comfortable silence, as he slowly closes his eyes.

The two of you are nearly halfway up his driveway, your hand outstretched in an attempt to save the carpet of his limo from the onslaught of soda pouring from his bottle, before he opens his eyes again. He hops out of his limo and hustles you forward, the tips of his fingers insistent at the small of your back. You race forward, laughing, as he pokes you and you alternately avoid his hands and try to trip him up.

Once inside, he leads you up several flights of stairs, before leading you into his room. This place is…. Huge. His whole respite block is bigger than an average human apartment. On the back most wall in the left corner of his room is a filthy vanity, littered with face paint and drawers overflowing with jewelry and brushes and dirty sponges. In front of that, to your left, you see his couch (surprisingly free of crumbs or food debris) and his huge, plasma screen tv (unsurprisingly not free of fingerprints). Kitty corner to that is his troll... bed... cocoon thing with a little side table, which is overflowing with incense, a lava lamp, a half eaten bag of chips, and some miscellaneous religious iconography. On the south wall, between his vanity and coon, is a varied assortment of expensive sound equipment in shades of pink, purple and gold and a chest of drawers that you suspect holds more of the same. It appears that this is where a majority of his cleaning efforts are spent, as everything seems to be dust free and in its proper place. In the middle of his equipment is a framed record- his first, if you had to guess.

He sort of awkwardly shuffles his feet and clears his throat to catch your attention.

“to be honest fam i fxxkin reek LOL. stay put while i take a shower?”

You nod at him- he does stink, a little, like sweat and dirt and blood. He tosses something at you and you narrowly avoid being hit in the face. You bend down to pick it up and find that it’s some sort of insect… thing. You suspect that it’s the remote to his tv, but you struggle to figure it out. In the end, you abandon it on the couch and content yourself with scrolling through your chittr feed.

It’s an hour and a half later before Marvus comes back to you.

He’s surprisingly dry for having just come out of the shower- you suppose most of his time spent was on washing and drying his hair. He looks almost ridiculous, wearing bright yellow sweatpants and a black tee shirt with his hair all a-fluff. Oh fuck, he’s wearing slippers with little clowns and carousel horses on them. That’s so cute. His face is conspicuously _not_ bare and you wonder if maybe the paint is tattooed onto his face? You shake the thought away with much horror…. no, surely not……

Marvus, as though sensing your thoughts, hands you a bowl full of… something, and a damp washcloth. You sniff, expecting some sort of bitter chemical tang, but its just water.

“u ok w dis b? i could do it myself but messiahs know i could b getting down 2 b pampered ufeelme? :o)”

You nod, curiosity about him overtaking your need for polite, friendly distance. He starts to pull his hair back and you’re momentarily disappointed at the loss, but then he wraps a headband of sorts around his hairline and ties it securely at the back of his head. He closes his eyes blissfully and you’re almost moved to cry a single tear- he’s so beautiful. You can tell that, behind his lax clown facade, he’s a little nervous. The clown paint might hide the blush on his face but it does nothing to conceal the purple flush of his ears.

The washcloth in your hands is starting to drip on the floor. Right, then. You drag it gently across his brow, and, when that doesn’t do anything, you run it roughly over his brow. He doesn’t wince, like you’d expect, but rather he leans into your touch and makes a strange sort of humming sound, like you left your car running and also you’ve recently filled the engine with live cicadas. The paint is a lot thicker than you thought it would be, and soon you’re sent running to his bathroom (down the hall, third door on your right) for clean water. It’s a lot of work, honestly. You wonder if he does this at the end of every night.

When you get back, you continue your work down the outline of his face, and you’re surprised to find that he has acne scars around his temples, another small scar across his left cheek and up onto his nose, bags settling in under his eyes like he packed up all of his emotional baggage and left it there. You're surprised when his eyebrows are a little lower than you thought they would be, and then again with how shockingly black his lips are. You feel like an excavator, unearthing secrets about him with each removal of each patch of face paint. He’s beautiful and peaceful and he’s staring right at you.

You expect him to smile flirtatiously like he usually does, but instead he presses his lips to your knuckles, kissing slow and sleepy and intimate, the pad of his thumb brushing the underside of your palm. You flush and he bows his forehead to meet the back of your hand, sighing contentedly. You clutch the fingers left in your grip as he slowly pulls his face back up. The purple is starting to come into his eyes- the places where it meets the grey of his iris turning slightly muddy. He looks exhausted, and you briefly curse your tiny human body. How you wish you could pick him up and slam dunk him into his troll slime sleep pod thing.

He stretches before leaning into your stomach, breathing you in and wrapping his arms around your waist. You get it, you think. You feel this. How often does he get to turn off his stage persona? How often do people get to take care of him like this? He rubs his face across your stomach, catching his nose in the dip of your belly button. This intrigues him, apparently, because he does it again and again and soon you're laughing together and he's blowing raspberries onto your stomach as he leans in with you back onto the couch as you laugh and struggle against him.

He keeps laughing- its loud and obnoxious and stupidly endearing. Then he pulls you up to your feet and asks you a question that you’re pretty sure he’s asked before

“want 2 dance?”

You really, really don’t but also everything in you is screaming that yes, you really, really do. He sort of sways gracefully onto his feet and pulls you along with him, dipping his hips and moving his arms to a rhythm only he feels. You sort of struggle with swaying your body and swinging your arms clumsily for a bit before he lays his hands on you and helps to guide you. There’s no music to help you, so he alternately hums and beat boxes at you to encourage a steady pace.

“ur pretty silly, huh? i think u lost ur rhythm on ur way to alternia cuz LOL ;o)”

You blush, embarrassed, and shoot back with ‘do you have an excuse for how you lost yours?’ ...it's a lame excuse, his rhythm is flawless, but he laughs anyway. God, you wish he would do that more often. Soon, you feel like you have a rhythm down and you sway together. He keeps looking at you expectantly but you really don’t feel like making the first move here. Not now, anyway, when you are slowly acclimating this into your comfort zone. Just… lassoing up your insecurities like some shitty low budget cowboy, swaying in your dusty cowboy clothes, and taking them behind the barn to put them down. Wait, what? What were you thinking about?

As it turns out, you don’t need to make any first move, because Marvus just straight up kisses you. His lips are kind of dry and his teeth sort of rub uncomfortably against you at first, but you adjust and soon the two of you are kissing proper- his breath on your cheek a sweet reprieve from the blush on your face. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to reach up to him and wrap your arms around his neck, and he responds by breaking the kiss to grab you gently by the back of your head, pulling your head into the crook of his neck as he buries his face in your hair and purrs at you. Success! You get a nice whiff of his clean hair- it’s surprisingly floral yet spicy, like cardamom and pepper and sweet jasmine.

The two of you sway together for a while- you let him get a good feel of you. One of his hands holds you gently around your waist while the other is busy in your hair, scratching soft circles into your scalp and smoothing behind your ears. You kiss him chastely across his chest and once on his collarbone, and you feel him smile into your hair, drawing you closer to him. Slowly, your eyes get heavier, you start to lose your rhythm, and he half drags, half carries you to the couch.

He fusses with you a bit, wrapping you in his limbs and his huge, purple comforter. He draws you into his chest while he lies on his back, and you look up at him. He's all smiley and silly and sleepy. He places another kiss on your forehead and you settle into him. His skin feels almost uncomfortably cold- you suppose you must feel warm and cozy to him, what with the way he can't seem to get you close enough. Soon, your eyes are closing of their own volition, and you find yourself settling into sleep to the sounds of Marvus purring lovingly at you, his hands at your back.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me @clusband on tumblr!


End file.
